


Season of the Goddess

by smos



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Deity Hermione, F/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22418830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smos/pseuds/smos
Summary: Newly transformed and injured, James Potter would have regretted his reckless behaviour had it not been for a mysterious classmate he'd never seen nor noticed before. A classmate who seemed to enjoy sneaking off into the Forbidden Forest at night and possessed peculiar talents. James would have regretted his reckless behaviour, but he did so love mysteries. [Jamione. Timetravel.]
Relationships: Hermione Granger/James Potter
Comments: 69
Kudos: 231





	1. The Will-o’-the-Wisp

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Welcome to my new story, Season of the Goddess! This is a story I’ve been meaning to write for years now, and I hope it will come together as well as I am hoping it would. However, I must warn you that is fic is an exploration piece and written purely for the fun of it, so it will not stick to specific themes or facts on subjects such as paganism or any other concepts that require close scrutiny. Having said that, please keep in mind that I’ve handpicked information that works with the story and I’ve even made up a few others, so if you’re the type who likes their fiction as close to accurately factual as possible, this might not be for you. 
> 
> The fic is Hermione-centric, and though the pairing, as the story is planned out now, is a Jamione, I should warn you that it could turn into a multi or a triad in the future, depending on how things go. I will give everyone fair warning should the original pairing deviate to accommodate more people involved, but I would like to give you all a head’s up first, just in case it does happen. So far though, it’s highly unlikely.
> 
> The story currently has four chapters written, two still unedited, but I will endeavour to update bi-monthly. I have another story coming out soon (next week, if all goes as planned), so my updates should come out alternately with this one.
> 
> So! Now that you’ve made it this far into my babble, I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoy writing it! Reviews are always welcome, really don’t hold back! ;)

_Hogwarts, 6 June 1995_

" _Today we acknowledge a really terrible loss. Cedric Diggory was as you all know, exceptionally hard-working, infinitely fair-minded and most importantly a fierce, fierce friend. Now I think therefore you have the right to know exactly how he died. You see, Cedric Diggory was murdered by Lord Voldemort. The Ministry of Magic does not wish me to tell you this, but not to do so I think would be an insult to his memory._ ”* 

Headmaster Dumbledore’s speech echoed throughout the Great Hall with a solemnity that reverberated through every soul present. The unexpected death of Cedric Diggory at the Triwizard Tournament was a tragedy that loomed over Hogwarts like a dark foreboding cloud. Sorrow clung onto every stone and battlement of the castle as fear and dread weaved through them like cold spectres. 

Hermione, like all the others, felt the grief of losing a fellow student to death. It sat heavy on her — on everyone's — shoulders. For all her brilliance, it was difficult for her to wrap her head around the idea that someone — someone like _Cedric Diggory_ , so young, so vivacious, and so full of life — was dead, just like that. She had not known him, had not once spoken a word to him, but she felt staggering disbelief at the news of his passing. His murder.

_Death was inevitable._

Coldness crept through her bones. The despondency she felt around the castle was depressing her further, suffocating her until all she could only literally manage shallow breaths. She felt dazed and so tired. 

_So very, very tired_ , a voice seemed to echo in her head through the haze of exhaustion.

“Hermione?” a soft voice called out, permeating through the bone-deep exhaustion she felt.

Hermione turned her head to look at Lavender sitting at the Gryffindor table across from her, her vision starting to fade around the edges. "Hmm?"

"Are you all right?" The girl asked, concern writ across her already dejected features, her usually vibrant blond hair limp and lacklustre. "You look ill."

"I…" Hermione began, mustering all her strength to answer. She was just exhausted, she wanted to say. Just —

And then she fainted.

* * *

_Hogwarts, 4 May 1998_

It was over. Voldemort was dead. The war was won.

Hermione sat on a cool patch of grass by the Great Lake, letting the cool morning breeze waft through her face. She had risen with the sun and she basked in the peace that surrounded her, hearing nothing but the sound of the water lapping against the shore and the wind rustling against the leaves. She had needed to get away from the castle, from the rubble, the grieving. They’d lost so many people, so many good friends and family. So many casualties to a war that had begun because of the senseless ambition of a power-hungry man. 

Fred, Remus, Tonks, Colin, Lavender… _Her parents_ …

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath and shook her head at the stray thought. 

No, her parents weren’t dead. They were safe, but they were gone from her, living a life without her, with no memory of her. Soon, she would find them and she would restore their memories. If she could. Maybe.

Another gust of wind blew through the trees and ruffled her unbound hair, and in the stillness of the morning, she heard it.

_My child…_

Hermione sat up straight at the sound she thought she heard a whisper so soft, it could have just been a whistle of the wind. She looked around her, scanning the lake’s edge and the grounds surrounding her. There was no one else in sight, the castle just a hulking grey ruin behind her. 

She shook her head again. Was she hearing things? She must be. 

_It’s the stress_ , she thought, just as she saw something flash at the corner of her eye. Something white and brilliant. 

Hermione stood, the reflexes she’d gained from the war springing into action and for a split second, she thought she saw someone wearing robes of white standing against the trunk of a leafless tree a few metres away. When she got fully to her feet, however, she saw nothing there.

Another gust of cool wind blew by, and if she listened hard enough, she would have heard the soft words they carried.

_Goodbye…_

As Hermione stood there, bewildered and alert, she couldn’t understand the tightness she felt in her chest… Nor the reason for the tears that rolled down her cheeks.

* * *

_The British Ministry of Magic, June 1999_

The dull buzz of the people bustling around the Department for the Regulation of Magical Creatures was a noise that Hermione hardly noticed anymore. The constant flurry of people and rustling of flying paper memos were nothing but white noise the young witch. Hermione was able to concentrate on the documents she was proofreading before submitting them to the Head of the Department, Gethsemane Prickle, with an ease that belied how utterly bored she was. It was an extremely tedious job and it certainly wasn’t very challenging, but it paid for her food and rent while she prepared for her NEWTS, especially when she’d opted to skip her last year of Hogwarts.

Just then, the door to the department burst open, and a flurry of harried Ministry employees and people in a variety of coloured robes filed in, rushing to the Prickle’s office with an urgency that was usually only seen within the Auror Department. 

Hermione glanced up from her work in befuddlement, her tedium induced reverie breaking like a fragile bubble. Nothing significantly exciting ever happened within the Department for the Regulation of Magical Creatures, usually just a disgruntled centaur or other here and there on the rarest of days. The sudden burst of activity was nothing short of an anomaly.

Then a parade of a surprising mix of magical creatures traipsed in, from centaurs to merrows, hags and, from the trail of mesmerised men that followed after a duo of extremely attractive women in shimmering gossamer robes, veelas. 

Her eyebrows rose at the sudden cacophony and she shared a puzzled glance with Luna, who was sitting at the desk beside her, her large tri-horned glasses adorned with tiny carrots hanging at the corners sitting askew on the bridge of her nose.

“What in the world…” Hermione murmured, unable to take her eyes off of the unusual brigade that had scattered about their office. She could see that she wasn’t the only one shell-shocked by the procession. Her co-workers’ mouths were left agape while those who didn’t work at the department peered in, equally dumbfounded. Never, in all the history of Wizarding Britain (that Hermione could remember reading about) had any of these magical creatures — willingly, at least — set foot in its hallowed halls. It was, to say the least, disconcerting.

“Perhaps they all have Wrackspurts in their ears. The warm summer weather does make them go a little mad,” Luna’s sing-song voice supplied, her own eyes planted on the scene, though she seemed to be taking the entire fiasco more gracefully than others.

Hermione cast her fellow intern a side-long glance but didn’t say a word in opposition otherwise. She loved her friend, truly she did. She just needed to remind herself of why sometimes. 

“‘Fraid Wrackspurts aren’t the cause of this debacle, Lovegood,” a soft masculine voice spoke up, and Hermione glanced over her shoulder to see Matthew Palmer, one of the investigators of creature-related incidents, approach their tables with a slow caution she supposed he used while out on the field, his bright blue gaze fixed firmly on the party of magical creatures crowding in front of the Head’s office. “It’s worse than that. _Much_ worse.”

Curious, as was her nature, Hermione couldn’t help but ask, “What is it, then? Why do you suppose they’re here?”

Palmer spared her a curt glance, before placing the newspaper he’d been clutching flat on her desk, the headline blazing in big, bold letters. “This.”

_A Natural Disaster: Enchanted Forests Dying_

* * *

_Tutshill, June 1999_

A bright white light shining behind her eyelids roused her from her slumber, warm and penetrating, chasing away the shadows of a dream she could now barely remember. Hermione moaned, her senses waking reluctantly as she shifted in bed. With effort, she opened her bleary eyes, squinting against the white brightness that filtered into her room. She peered around her, befuddled. _What—?_

Her room was dimly lit, the silver light emanating from her door chasing away the darkness that it could reach, the shadows hugging the walls and corners. Through sleep-heavy eyes, Hermione turned to its source in confusion before promptly shooting out of bed at what she saw. 

_What on earth!_

There, floating in thin air by her doorway was a single sphere of light, bobbing lazily, as if waiting for her. 

Hermione’s mind churned to life, sleep long forgotten. 

_A will-o’-the-wisp…_

More confused now than ever, Hermione slid her legs to the floor, the hem of her nightgown slipping down her thighs as she stood. She reached for her wand sitting on her nightstand and took a step forward instinctively, pausing when reason took over. What on earth could a Will-o’-the-wisp be doing here, in her flat? Will-o’-wisps are only usually found in marshes or bogs, not in small wizarding homes in the middle of Tutshill. 

  
  


“H-hello?” she said for a lack of words to say. How did one interact with sentient yet mischievous little clumps of air?

Behind her, she heard Crookshanks stir from the foot of her bed before he lept down after his mistress and stalked towards the floating speck of light, head tilted to the side in curiosity.

The tiny wisp made a small circle in the air, and Hermione didn’t know how, but she instinctively knew they it wanted her to follow it. Should she? 

She hesitated. Logically, she knew that will-o’-the-wisps were generally harmless sprites. _Generally_. They were mischievous pranksters that liked to pray on human curiosity, leading unwitting travellers into marshes, but…

Hermione bit her lip, staring at the phosphoric flame a moment longer, cautious but so infinitely curious.

The glowing orb seemed to have grown impatient and finally made the decision for her, blowing out of existence, and reappearing a few metres away, and into her living room. 

Hermione huffed and tightened her grip on her wand. There was nothing for it, she had to know what was going on. Bracing herself, her war-honed instincts surging to the fore, she inched after the glowing ball of vapour, bare feet padding silently against the carpet. Crookshanks’ ears twitched once before he followed close behind. 

The moment she got within a few feet from her sofa, the blasted thing blew out again and reappeared in a puff of bluish silver glow by her kitchen entryway. It bobbed lazily, beckoningly, small sparks emanating at its flame’s tip as if encouraging her to move along.

And the witch did, her movement slow, her senses wary. She reached her kitchen, and, as she expected, the orb disappeared again, only to reappear metres away, by the back door that led to the small garden. It circled around the doorknob, making its wishes known, and Hermione moved to acquiescence, making sure to cast a warming charm on herself, a curse and a Patronus already at the tip of her tongue should anything go awry.

She reached for the doorknob and the will-o’-the-wisp disappeared again, just before she swung the backdoor open, only to reveal more phosphoric silver lights, floating one after another in a trail that led her out into the small backdoor garden. With furrowed brows, she stepped out into the balmy summer air, a quickly cast warming charm shielding her from the gust of wind. She stepped into the smooth stone path, the smooth surface cool and biting before she followed the trail of silvery wisps, disappearing one after another the moment she was within a few feet of them, more appearing down the line, the further she went.

Behind her, Crookshanks meowed, a call, a warning, but Hermione couldn’t hear him, so focused was she at following her glowing guides, mesmerised even, that she was completely unaware of how her surroundings had suddenly changed. She failed to notice that the cool stone path had given way to soft, dewy grass; failed to take note that the rose bushes and vines had given way to large tree trunks, gnarled, leafless and dark. 

Finally, she reached the end of her path. There, the last wisp bobbed serenely in front of an enormous tree, possibly the largest she’d ever seen. Hermione stepped closer, looking up at the impressive structure with unveiled awe. 

It was...to put simply, majestic, with its pearl white trunk and branches that spanned a diametre so wide, it would have taken fifty people to surround it fully. Its long, thick boughs reached high towards the sky, it almost seemed like it could touch the moon itself. It stood there, proud and immovable, shining in the moonlight, the moonbeams showering a silver splendour over its sturdy form.

_It’s a snag_ , Hermione thought absently, eyes transfixed. 

The tree was dead, leafless and unbearing. Without warning, the realisation suddenly felt crushing, her chest feeling tight and all she felt was sorrow. _Why?_ It was just a tree!

A tree…

_Hang on!_ There were _no_ trees in her garden. Much less as enormous as this! 

Looking around, Hermione realised that she _was_ no longer in her back garden. Dark tall trees surrounded her, imposing and leafless, dark and scorched black. She sucked in a breath, trying to calm the instinctive panic that rose within her. She was a witch, after all. It didn’t matter where she was; she could Apparate whenever she wanted.

But it did matter.

_Where_ was _she?_

Something curled up around her legs, soft and ticklish. She started with a gasp, instinctively jumping away, but when she looked down, she found herself gaping at a familiar squashed face. A welcome squashed face, in fact. 

“Crooks?” Hermione bent down and scooped her familiar up to peer into his flat face, surprised and grateful to find herself with company. “You followed me.” 

The part-Kneazle only rumbled a deep sound in response. 

Relieved, Hermione pulled Crookshanks into her chest, eyes roving the woodland they found themselves in. All she could see were tall, immovable trees whichever way she looked all around her. She was clearly in a forest. A peculiar forest with leafless trees in the middle of summer, dark scorch marks burnt along their impressive trunks. 

But… “Where are we?”

Unbidden, she remembered the headlines she had read in the _Daily Prophet_ . _Enchanted Forests Dying. A Natural Disaster._

The news broke out about a week ago, and the Department for the Regulation for Magical Creatures had been in a flurry of activity. Magical creatures’ habitats were being affected by their dying ecosystems and no one had any answers. No one could explain what was happening, not even the Unspeakables. At least, not officially. Hermione had a feeling there was more they were not telling the general wizarding populace, and as an intern, she wasn’t privy to them.

Crookshanks, of course, had no answer, either.

Suddenly the will-o’-the-wisp in front of her began to glow in the moonlight, pulsating a luminescent sheen of pearly silver. Hermione gasped shielding her eyes at the sudden flash, and a moment later, she found herself surrounded by the phosphoric little flames, spinning around her in an enchanting, dizzying dance. In a strange mix of awe and panic, Hermione could only marvel at the sight. 

The wind started to blow one huge gust after another, an unrelenting melody to the light show she found herself in the middle of. 

Crookshanks squirmed in her arms but otherwise didn’t try to pull away, and Hermione could only pull him closer. 

It was a wondrous thing to behold. The lights emanating from the wisps were warm, almost comforting, even when the wind had picked up so violently around them, there could have been a windstorm. 

She didn’t know what compelled her to do it, but before Hermione could catch herself, she was already stepping forward, her hand outstretched, reaching for the warm spinning lights around her. Crooks purred in her arms and bolstered by her familiar’s calm demeanour, reached a wondering finger for a dancing flame. The moment her fingertips met its warmth, a bright light seemed to explode, a searing heat enveloping her very being though she surprisingly felt no pain. 

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, unable to keep them open, and before she knew it, all she saw was black.

* * *

_Hogwarts, September 1975_

It was amazing how, even after all these years, Hermione still caught herself in moments of disbelief, speechless at the fact that she had, in fact, travelled back in time. Twenty years back, to be exact. 

In her quiet moments, like right now, walking along dewy banks of the Black Lake, letting the cool morning breeze nip against her reddened cheeks, she found herself marvelling at how surreal it was, impossible, unimaginable even. And yet, here she was, in 1975, a student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a proud member of the House of Ravenclaw, starting her Fifth Year...all over again. 

Although, if she were being completely technical, time-travel wouldn’t be the exact term she would call her particular...existence? Because when it got down to it, it wasn’t just that she had travelled back twenty years into the past that made the whole thing mind-boggling, it was that she had been _whisked away_ to exactly twenty years before her birth. 

It was, in a word, ridiculous.

But then, she supposed, when you were an heir to what was essentially viewed as a _deity_ , then ridiculous was basically just the expected norm.

The sound of splashing water caught her attention, snapping her out of her early morning musings. Bringing herself back to the present, she turned her distracted gaze towards the centre of the Great Lake and found a giant tentacle over the water’s surface, weaving in the air in a funny, friendly wave. 

_Little sapling, welcome back!_

The Giant Squid seemed to say, and though Hermione didn’t really hear it in those precise words, she fully understood what he’d said. The young witch raised her own hand, waving her hand above her head even as she _sent_ her own greetings back to her friend. 

It was a peculiar feeling, being able to communicate in a way, with animals. They never said it in precise words, or in a particular language, and yet, it wasn’t what one would call telepathy, either. No, with animals, Hermione learned early on, that they used both intention and feeling to communicate. Words weren’t as important to them as they were to humans, magical or otherwise.

A few more gigantic tentacles rose from the lake’s depths, twisting and rolling around each other in the air in a bizarre imitation of a jig, and then the Giant Squid dove back deep underwater, leaving the lone witch standing by the shore chuckling in its wake.

It was lucky that no one was around, the hour too early for most of Hogwarts’ residents. Hermione had always been a morning person, even in her previous life, and she had taken to going on early morning walks on dry, brisk days like these. It wasn’t often, but she was always grateful for the reprieve it gave her when she did. 

The clock tower in the courtyard chimed, the dull tolling of its bell signalling that it was time for breakfast.

Hermione took a deep breath, savouring the crisp morning breeze, savouring the silence around her before turning to head back into the castle. It wouldn’t be long before Taran arrived at Ravenclaw Tower to fetch her, annoyingly prompt as he is. She’d never hear the end of it if he found out she went out of the castle walls without company.

Hermione hurried across the courtyard and through one of the doors that led into the castle halls, feet flying through the familiar cobbles. So familiar, in fact, that this would literally be the eleventh year she’d lived in its cavernous halls. 

“There you are!”

Hermione took an abrupt halt, pausing mid-step and looked over her shoulder to see a boy with mussed and dishevelled copper brown hair, his expression pinched in a grimace of annoyance as he stared down at her from the last three steps of the stairs that led to the Astronomy Tower. He sighed when she turned to face him fully, her lips hiked up in a sheepish smile as he moved down towards her. “Good morning, Taran.”

“Don’t give me that.” The boy narrowed his sapphire blue eyes at her, and the scowl he sent her way seemed so out of place with the yellow and black tie that he sported neatly around his neck. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Where have you been?”

Sighing, Hermione answered him with an exaggerated roll her eyes. Taran Pearce had always been a tad bit too overbearing, well-meaning as he was. And he took his job far too seriously as one of her so-called protectors, but really, what could go wrong at Hogwarts, where barely anyone noticed her all these years? Coming back for her fifth year certainly wasn’t going to change any of that.

“Well, _mum_ ,” she sniped and smirked when he fell into step beside her, the disgusted look he gave her his only response to her quip, “not that it’s any of your business—”

The boy beside her scoffed at this, though he never broke his stride because he really did think it was his business to know where she went. He was, after all, her bodyguard. 

“—seeing as we’ve just gotten back to Hogwarts, I thought it would be nice to have a stroll around the castle grounds before classes officially began. The Giant Squid was ever so lonely!”

The look he gave her for her cheek was frosty, but Hermione could see, having known the stern Sixth Year boy long before she could remember this life, that he was taking it in good humour. He just worried about her all the time. Was this how Harry felt back when they had been in school and she had been endlessly fussing _over him_? 

“That’s all well and good, _Eirianwen_ , but you know you’re not supposed to go anywhere outside of the castle premises without me or Lucine.” 

“First of all, Mister Pearce, _don’t_ call me that,” Hermione groused snootily, shooting the taller boy a glare of her own, an index finger coming up to punctuate her point, “and especially not at Hogwarts.” A second finger followed, and her tirade went on. “Second, I can take care of myself, thank you very much. And lastly.” She stopped just as they were nearing the door that led into the Great Hall, sweeping an arm at the space around them, “Hogwarts is the safest place in the entire Wizarding World.”

“Not as safe as Elaindale,” the boy stated matter-of-factly, his eyes glinting so ominously that Hermione was suddenly reminded of who exactly her friend was: a Druid warrior, born and raised to not only hunt for their enclave but to fight to the death. “and especially not as it should be for you.”

Well. He had her there.

The young witch huffed, turning on her heel and leaving the taller student in her wake, knowing she’d been outmatched, which really wasn’t often. Taran usually did, because when it came to her safety, he was right, the cocky bastard. No place _was_ safer than Elaindale, home of the Druids and _The Mother’s_ primary seat of power; not even Hogwarts, whose barriers had been breached in the Battle of Hogwarts in 1998, which was, Hermione allowed, still over two decades away.

The quirk of a smile that tugged at the corner of Taran’s lips was cheek all on its own, and it was prominent even as he caught up with her but he said nothing.

The Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff duo entered the Great Hall without incident, trading snarky comments and general observations along the way, heedless of the other students trudging slowly to their tables, most of them still disorientated from having to wake up early again after a long relaxing summer of sleeping in. They approached the Ravenclaw table without breaking pace, only stopping when they reached a student with pin-straight flaxen hair so long, it nearly touched the stone floor when she sat. 

Hermione looked over at the girl, a greeting on her tongue, but the girl’s serene, dreamy voice washed over them without preamble.

“How was the Giant Squid? Was he terribly lonely all summer?” Lucine Smethwyck asked, looking up at them with clear amethyst eyes. 

Hermione chuckles, and the triumphant look she shot the Hufflepuff beside her said it all. 

Taran heaved a long insufferable sigh, ran a palm down his angular visage before directing his piercing glower at the blonde student before him. “Lucine, if you knew where she was, _why_ didn’t you go with her?”

Barely anything ruffled Lucine Smethwyck, daughter of a Druid seer, and very much a capable clairvoyant on her own right. Not even the fierce displeasure of a Druid Warrior made her blink an eye and she merely shrugged in a slow graceful way that often made Hermione think of Dryads lounging in the sun. It didn’t help that Lucine had fine elfin features. She drew many admiring eyes to her strange charm, but the overwhelming mix of dreamy omnipotence she radiated often intimidated many people away. “I was having a party with the dream pixies.”

“Dream…” Taran faltered, then sent a prayer to the heavens above. He shook his head, longish copper brown hair held back by thin braids that ran along his temples flying, and turned to Hermione with another pointed glare. “Don’t walk around without company,” he pronounced curtly before marching off without another word, stomping across the Great Hall to the Hufflepuff table with an aggravated look on his face. 

Hermione stifled a giggle. She honestly didn’t know why he still tried so much; he knew he was never going to win against Lucine.

“So how _was_ the Giant Squid?” Lucine still wanted to know.

**_  
_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *A direct quote from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire


	2. Mother of Magic

Hermione awoke to birdsong and a sweet lullaby, the rustle of leaves and the cool balm of the wind across her cheeks the accompanying orchestra. She stirred from where she lay, feeling the warmth of the sun caressing her face. Someone was stroking her hair, their gentle fingers dancing to the rhythm of the song. A familiar song, an old one. One that made her feel content, loved; one that was as old as time.

She knew this song, Hermione suddenly realised, though she knew not the words.

She smiled, the gentle strokes to her hair stirring up old memories of laughter, warmth and comfort. Home.

"Mum?" she called out, voice hoarse from sleep as her eyes fluttered open to see sunbeams streaming through a canopy of tall trees, bright golden rays casting a magical shimmer to the landscape. She could see her mother's silhouette above her from where her head lay on her lap, her mum's fine feminine features cast in shadow against the sun's brightness.

The sweet melody halted mid-song, as did the hand that had been carding gently through her tresses, lulling her into peace. And then her mother looked down at her and the smile that greeted her was one that only a mother could give, sunny, gentle and full of love.

"Hullo, Hermione," she greeted with a voice so ethereal and melodious, it seemed to come to life in the wind.

Only it wasn't her mother. It was someone else. Someone unfamiliar, and yet...

Still drowsy from her sleep, Hermione's brows furrowed in confusion as she sat up, eyes blinking up at the unknown woman in bewilderment and not a little wonder. She stared and awe overcame her the longer she did.

The woman was…

 _Magnificent_.

Long dark brown hair the colour of the richest earth framed her perfectly oval face like a glossy waterfall of silk. Her skin was golden and ㄧ quite literally ㄧ glowing in the sun. High, regal cheekbones stood out prominently, so sharp, they could have cut diamonds, on a face so perfectly symmetrical, a master sculptor couldn't have done any better. Her nose was feminine and small and her lips were as red as freshly picked apples.

But her eyes…

Her eyes were the most arresting thing about her. They were almond-shaped, topped with thick eyelashes and they were _molten_ ㄧ literally. They smouldered with so many colours, her pupils shifting from green to gold, blue to violet, a multitude of colours swirling in her irises as if all the colours in the spectrum were constantly vying for dominance.

She was beautiful, ethereal. Otherworldly.

And tall. So tall, in fact, that Hermione barely came up to her chin as they sat in front of each other in the grass.

All the young witch could do was gape. It only took one look at this woman for anyone to realise that she was not altogether human.

Who are you? Hermione wanted to ask. _What_ are you?

"Dru-druantia?" was what she found herself asking instead, unable to tear gaze away from the woman, entranced.

Then a frown dipped her own lips immediately after. How did she know that? She was fairly certain she had never met or seen this woman before in her life, and she doubted she would ever forget, not a _being_ like her. Stranger still, even as her mind whirled with confusion, her instincts told her she was safe. For some bizarre reason, she just _knew_ , without a shadow of a doubt, that she was safe.

 _She was the safest she could be_.

Odd.

"You seem confused, child," the woman answered with a comforting smile, an understanding wrinkle at the edges of her eyes. Kind eyes, Hermione decided. She had kind eyes, despite their molten peculiarity. "Are you all right?"

Hermione nodded cautiously, her brows still furrowed in consternation. "I'm just…confused."

"Confused?" Perfectly shaped eyebrows flying up in an almost indulgent way, the woman before her questioned gently. "About what?"

Blinking, Hermione looked up at her, unable to find any other words, nor could she find it in her to lie. "You."

"Me?"

If there had been a way to express great surprise with grace, Hermione reckoned the goddess – _goddess,_ she frowned inwardly – was able to pull it off in the most enchanting ways. Then, comprehension seemed to shine a light within her strange, otherworldly yet fascinating eyes. A knowing smile crept up the corners of her lips as she took hold of one of Hermione's hands, which seemed smaller, she noticed, within the woman's grip than it should be…

Before Hermione could call attention to this observation, however, the lady spoke, a knowingness in her voice that was both comforting and confounding. "It seems that your memories have finally caught up."

"My...memories? Caught up?" Hermione tilted her head to the side questioningly, more confused now than ever. And the more confused she got, the more frustrated she became. "What—"

Hermione Granger was rarely confused.

_Memories._

Her mind raced, jogging to her most recent recollection, flashing before her eyes in quick succession. She had been sleeping, and then...the will-o'-the-wisps, a forest, a dead, white tree, Crookshanks. And then, darkness.

Dread crept into her bones like icy fingers. Her muscles coiled tight, ready to jump up and retreat away from the mysterious woman, eyes wide in alarm. Her fingers curled around the thick grass under her hands, blindly searching for her wand though she felt confident enough in her abilities to throw up a wandless _Protego_ in case the woman decided to attack her.

No, she didn't know what was going on, but something was _definitely_ wrong.

"Calm yourself, _Eilonwy*_." Before Hermione could move a muscle, the woman reached out and ran a hand down the back of her head in a comforting caress, like a mother would do with a scared child. The woman — _Druantia_ her brain supplied as she looked up speechless — gave her a gentle, reassuring smile. "I'm not going to hurt you."

And Hermione believed her. She didn't know why but she did. Implicitly. Druantia wouldn't hurt her. She was…

 _She was Mother,_ her inner voice supplied once more.

"I don't understand," Hermione began in a small voice, suddenly awash with thoughts and feelings she would have only ever associated with one person: her own mother, Helen Granger. "I know you, but I...I don't think I've ever met you before."

The strange being pulled away and bestowed her with another benevolent smile, but this time it was with a sparkle in her molten gaze.

"In this case, my Little _Elain*_ ," she answered as she ran a hand through Hermione's curls, a feeling of calm washing over the girl. "It is both."

* * *

_The Mother_

_A passage from the records of Arthwys the Chronicler,_

_From Archives of the Coeden Wybodaeth*, Elaindale_

_For as long as the world has lived, so has she, the Mother, the Nurturer, the Goddess. She who gave birth to all life, she who is of the earth, she who is of magick itself. She who is the reason magick thrives, and therefore why all life exists._

_She is called by many names across the world, across time, but always, she is known as the Earth Mother. To the druids, she is Druantia*._

_It is Druantia who presides over the balance of the universe and its cycles, ensures the natural passage from life to death and rebirth comes to pass, for there can be no light without darkness, no creation without destruction and no life without death._

_When the time comes for Druantia to return to the earth, as with all natural things and she, the most natural being of all to exist, it is, therefore, our sacred duty as the Druids of Elaindale to safeguard the rebirth of her new form, now and forevermore, for so long as the earth and magick remains._

* * *

_Elaindale, June 1964_

Hermione examined her youthful face in the crystalline blue water of the river in front of her with a critical eye, taking in the roundness to her cheeks, the small frame of her shoulder. Her limbs were thin, almost twig-like in its fragility, and her ankles were no different. Her hair was long, the longest she'd ever worn it, unbound brown curls falling almost to her square childish hips, a wild living thing that she doubted even three bottles of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion and Scalp Treatment could tame. A pity, really, since she'd just gotten her hair to calm down, too. Her eyes were a big, bright brown, an awareness in them that she had to admit was out of place above the rose of her cheeks.

She decided then that it was a disconcerting experience, to look at herself and feel like a total stranger to her own appearance, to look at herself and realise with sudden clarity that she had to relive her childhood once again — quite literally.

Hermione had seen pictures of herself as a young child, but to confirm that though she did indeed look exactly as she did when she was four, albeit with hair a little longer and a tad wilder, a possibility that was a tad worrying, it was an entirely different experience to see your four-year-old self in the mirror through the eyes of a nineteen-year-old.

Hermione turned away abruptly from her reflection, disturbed. She had already finished throwing a huge benny over her new (though not quite) appearance, and the goddess had _graciously_ given her a few moments to come to grips with being not-quite-five again. As well she should, considering _she_ had been the one to do this to her!

Druantia. _Mother._

Her early memories of this life told her she was _Mother_ , and after what the goddess had told her of who she actually was and how she came to be here, so far back into the past, she supposed she was. All living things were her children, after all. Druantia _was_ Magic, or at least the personification of it.

_But…_

But she was just a bit different, wasn't she?

Hermione climbed back up to the bank, making her way to a lazing willow tree, its leaves languishing in the wind. It seemed to titter at her approach, it's boughs seeming to creak ever so slightly.

According to Druantia, though she was a child born from Helen and Oberon Granger, every bit their flesh and blood, Hermione had always, _always_ been born _for_ magic, not just _from_ magic, as was the case with many witches and wizards. She had been conceived, and as preposterous as it sounded, to ascend in the most archaic cycle of the earth and of magic. She was, the Mother Goddess had pronounced with implacable conviction, the _next_ Druantia, and when she would finally meet her dawn, Hermione would rise in the rebirth of magic, for even magic had a cycle, and not even _actual goddesses_ were truly immortal.

It had admittedly been a lot to take in.

It had just been over a week since her arrival, not only to Elaindale, the hidden paradise of the druids and _the_ Mother Goddess's seat of power but to 1964 as well, thirty-five years into the past. Though, "arrival" might not be the best word to use, because technically, she had been living in Elaindale since the day she was born – or, well, reborn – from the light of the will-o'-the-wisps in 1959. It was her memories from the future that had just "arrived". Or rather, her consciousness, only now surfacing at an age when children's brains were big enough to retain their long-term memories.

At four and a half years old, it seemed that her brain was just the right size to be able to accommodate _all_ of her previous memories and consciousness. It explained why she _knew_ things and people she hadn't previously known or met before — yet another disconcerting thing about all this.

Hermione sighed and laid on the grass beneath the shade of the willow, unconcerned that the white cotton frock embroidered with Celtic horse knots she wore would get stained. She stared at the canopy of leaves above her, tendrils long and graceful, the other trees surrounding her as enormous and as high as skyscrapers, making her feel smaller than she already was.

As Drunatia had told it, the future that Hermione would have known was no more. The world had or would have collapsed in on itself just before the end of the year 1999, when all living things perished, because Druantia had, in every sense of the word, _died_ , bringing the earth's magic with her, without Hermione ascend on its rebirth.

It began in Elaindale and then in every enchanted forest, every trunk, branch and stalk infected, dying off when the magic flowing within them became too corrupted with evil to bear, scorching the plants dark and lifeless from the inside out — _Enchanted Forests. Natural Disaster._

The sea, lakes, gulfs and streams would have soon followed, poison flowing in the water like a malicious current, driving many of its magical inhabitants out of their habitats. Without their natural ecosystem to turn to, magical creatures and even mundane animals would be rendered helpless to the corrupted flow of magic. Soon after, magicalfolk across the world would fall victim to an incurable disease that no Master Healer could identify, much less create a cure for.

By the turn of the 21st century, Muggles would drop in huge numbers, dying from disease and plague, natural disasters would savage cities: wildfires, devastating earthquakes, superstorms and tsunamis until finally, all that would be left of the earth was a giant, scorched black relic, lifeless.

There would be no magic left in the world after Druantia's death. When magic died, so did the earth, and so did everyone in it.

As a last resort, Druantia had used up the last vestiges of her powers before her demise to reach into herself, to a time when the earth was just a little bit younger, reaching into the magic that was ever ageless, so ever-present that it knew no time, to try and circumvent a future that only had death and no rebirth in its wake, an earth that had no cycle, only destruction. Not just for herself, but for the entire world.

" _Eirianwen*_?"

Hermione started out of her thoughts, blinking out of her reverie only to stare up into the wide violet eyes, curiosity shining through them innocently.

 _Lucine_ , Hermione's brain informed. _Friend_. _Best friend._

" _Uh, hullo_ ," she finally said _in Old Welsh*_ , a language she could now, _apparently_ , speak and understand effortlessly. She sat up and gave the other girl a small smile. Lucine looked no older than she did with pin-straight blonde hair hanging down her back like a golden waterfall. " _How are you, Lucine?_ "

The girl tilted her head in response, a question still shining in her eyes. " _Are you okay,_ _Eirianwen_?"

Hermione started to nod before she gave pause at her question. Was she? The child inside her knew she was. She wasn't feeling hungry and physically, she was well taken care of. Everyone in the village was nice to her, and tonight, Nona her nursemaid — _her nursemaid!_ — would have a nice dinner prepared for her. Things were rather simple at four, weren't they?

" _I'm okay_ ," she finally said. " _Just thinking_."

" _Thinking_?" The girl echoed in the way that children often did when they weren't clear on what you meant.

" _Er, yeah. Thinking_ ," she confirmed with a shrug.

" _Abou what?_ " Lucine took a seat beside her, huge amethyst eyes fixed on the other child with a gaze so guileless yet somehow piercing.

" _Just...stuff_ ," was her lame answer.

In all honesty, Hermione had no idea how to interact with children her own age without acting like she was so much older than they were. Especially because she technically was. How could she explain to a four-year-old (and for some reason the child inside her knew this as an important fact) that she had been contemplating about how the world she'd come from had been so corrupted by dark magic that the Mother Goddess had to literally turn back time and whisked her away to be reborn so they could restore the world back to its natural order, all because of a madman's hubris to try and claim what not even a veritable deity possessed and thereby corrupting the balance of nature.

" _Good stuff?_ " the girl asked, wide-eyed with excitement as she pushed herself up on her knees. " _Like unicorns and pixies and leprechauns?_ "

Hermione shook her head, feeling fine strands of wild curls fly about her head. " _Not exactly, no_."

If it was possible, Lucine's eyes grew impossibly wider, glittering in wonderment. She gasped and dropped her voice to a low yet audible whisper. " _Bad stuff?_ "

" _You could say that, yes_." Hermione dropped her gaze to her small hands, even now feeling like a stranger to her childish body. " _Bad stuff. Like…_ " — _like the end of the world_ — " _Like Voldemort._ "

Lucine wrinkled her nose at the word, her little elfin features crumpling almost comically, having no idea what exactly what a Voldemort was. " _You're right. That does sound bad_."

* * *

_Hogwarts, September 1975_

Having to go through Hogwarts twice now, excluding, of course, her Seventh Year, and going through the motions of a normal Hogwarts student, just focusing on school and basically just having an _almost_ ordinary life, was something that Hermione had grown to appreciate. Well, as normal as it was for her as the _sapling_ of the Earth Mother, but the relative non-life threatening experiences she had so far had at Hogwarts was a welcome change that she never got to enjoy as the friend of the infamous Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, and later, the Man-Who-Conquered, in her previous life.

She missed her friends terribly, of course, and not a day went by that she didn't wish she could give her boys a bone-crushing hug, but she knew very well that she wouldn't see them for at least a few more years. Unlike the previous timeline, however, they would never go to school with a bushy-haired girl named Hermione Granger, would never go to school with someone of that name, in fact, for she was here now, going to school with the infamous Marauders instead.

A melancholy sigh escaped her lips at the thought, her heart aching whenever she thought of the people she would never meet again. The years since had dulled the ache somewhat, but while life as Hermione Granger of the 1990's hadn't been perfect, it had been a life she had come to realise she treasured deeply.

It had taken Hermione a week to come to terms with her new reality since her consciousness had merged with her younger body all those years ago. It had taken her nearly a month to grieve for the life she had lost and was forced to leave behind. To grieve for the friends she would never know again. She had shut herself in her dwelling for weeks when she had realised that there was no way for her to return, that she hadn't been given a choice.

But there hadn't been a choice at all, had there? Returning to the past was the only way to ensure that humanity and magic had a fighting chance to change what awaited them in 24 years. Ultimately, she understood why Druantia had done it, and she had told her Mother Goddess so after the self-imposed isolation that had caused the entire druid enclave to worry after her in the process.

Just then, a loud commotion erupted from the Gryffindor table, followed by shrieks and gasps of surprise and incredulity. Hermione looked up from the Earl Grey tea she had been sipping and allowed the corners of her lips to quirk up in an odd mix of longing and fondness.

_Ah, chaos._

Hermione never noticed it before, as someone who had sat quite proudly at the Gryffindor table herself, but having to sit at the Ravenclaws' table, she now had quite a prime view of what mischief the infamous troublemakers of the decade was up to, and it happened nearly daily.

_Like clockwork._

Hermione watched with an amused expression on her face as James Potter and Sirius Black charmed the plates and utensils within their vicinity to serenade a furious Lily Evans sitting at the other end of the table. She watched, allowing a knowing smirk to grace her lips as James declared his undying love for Lily over the girl's own displeased yelling for them to cease and desist, watched as Remus Lupin silently shook his head at his friends' antics, while Sirius laughed uproariously at the flurry they caused with Peter Pettigrew.

Hermione grimaced, the sight of Pettigrew melting the warmth she felt towards the other members of the illustrious band, giving way to a feeling of distaste. She set her tea down, losing her taste for it. She couldn't help it. Even after all these years, _four years_ of being a classmate, sharing some of the same classes and seeing him every day in a classroom or around the castle, and she still felt her skin crawl whenever she saw the traitorous _rat_. One would think she would be desensitised to his slimy presence by now.

Apparently not. His sin was far too great. Far too unforgivable.

Rising from her spot at the long table, Hermione glanced down at the blonde girl sitting beside her, unruffled by the commotion at the table next to them, and quirked a questioning brow at her friend. "I'm off to the library for a bit before heading down to Potions. Coming?"

The brown-haired witch didn't miss the way Lucine dragged her startling violet gaze to pierce through the hysterical figure of a certain sycophantic member of the Marauders, before glancing back at her, the gem colour of her eyes glinting in a way that told Hermione she understood what was left unsaid. "Of course. There's an astronomy and a husbandry book that I've been meaning to borrow."

"Husbandry?"

Lucine's smile was serene and indulgent. "Why, yes. I want to cultivate some Wrackspurts, you see…"

* * *

_Hogwarts, September 1975_

James Potter was brimming with excitement.

Coming back to Hogwarts had always excited him. Sure, he loved being at home with his mum and his dad, but there was just not enough mischief to be had at Potter Manor. Playing pranks on the house-elves could only provide him with short-lived entertainment, after all, and being an only child, while it did have its perks, could be pretty lonely during the holidays, especially on the days when Sirius would be at his own house.

But at Hogwarts...At Hogwarts, he just felt _alive_ , indestructible.

There was just something about the halls of the magical castle that set his blood rushing, knowing that mischief could be had at every corner, something about the spacious grounds that urged him to constantly be on the lookout for adventure. The thrill of Quidditch set his spirits high, the success of a prank an addiction. Hell, even the fierce rivalry with the Slytherins and Snivellus set his adrenaline rushing. And of course, the lovely vision of one Miss Lily Evans, the love of his life, his maiden fair, could set his heart racing like no other.

It helped that his mates were always there with him, through it all. Marauders, through thick or thin.

Hogwarts was their domain.

 _And this year_ , James thought as he paused in front of one of the windows located just outside of the Gryffindor dormitories, looking out into the Forbidden Forest with building anticipation. _This year_ was going to be different — better.

Because _this year_ , come the first full moon of the school year, the Forbidden Forest wouldn't be so _forbidden_ anymore. Not to him or Padfoot or Wormtail, anyway.

He had very nearly completed his transformation; he, Sirius and Peter had all been practising non-stop at the gardens behind Potter Manor. And while they had only managed partial transforms in the early days of summer vacation, by the time 1st September rolled in, James was able to do complete transformation!

_...for all of three minutes, but still!_

With a little bit more practice, he's sure his mind would get used to the mental strain of staying in-animagus for longer periods of time. Just a bit more and Prongs would be free to explore the secrets of the Forbidden Forest, free to help a friend in need, free to run wild with Moony under the full moon's glow.

"Oi, Prongs! You coming or what?" Sirius hollered from down the hall as he bound towards the staircase, uncaring that his voice echoed around them like an explosion.

"If we don't hurry, the Slytherins will make it to the Quidditch pitch before we can surprise them!" Peter cried, fidgeting on his feet.

Remus merely shrugged, already knowing he was outnumbered anyway.

James shot his friends a ready smirk as he sauntered after them.

The possibilities for mischief, adventure and mystery at Hogwarts were endless. He couldn't wait!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Eilonwy - a name based on the Welsh word eilon, which means “stag” or “deer”. Not only does this name hint at her future connection with James *wink*, but in Celtic traditions, a stag symbolises the sacred and the forests. 
> 
> The names Eilonwy and Taran are also names I took from Llyod Alexander’s Chronicles of the Prydain as well as Disney’s The Black Cauldron because both works, especially the former, draw upon Welsh Mythology. 
> 
> *Elain - means fawn in Welsh.
> 
> *Drunatia - the names means “Queen of the Oak” or “Queen of the Druids”. She is not a real deity that was worshipped by Celts, but rather, is a hypothetical Celtic tree goddess proposed by Robert Graves and falls into the Mother Goddess archetype.
> 
> *Coeden Wybodaeth - According to Google, this is the Welsh translation of knowledge tree.
> 
> *Eirianwen - a Welsh name from the words eirian (shining or bright) and gwen (holy, white, pure). Its significance will be explained in the next chapter.


	3. A Hidden World - Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was broken into two parts because it was too long. Chapter four will be when our lovies meet. Hang in there! ;) This chapter is unbeta-ed.
> 
> WARNINGS: Mentions child marriage
> 
> *Dialogue in italics - characters are understood to speak in Old (Ancient?) Welsh.

Elaindale, September 1965

“ _Eirianwen! Wait for me!_ ”

“ _Come on, Nona! They’re starting! Hurry!_ ” Hermione only spared her nurse a quick glance over her shoulder, her wild brown curls flying as she ran up to the hill’s crest. She could already hear the faint sounds of festive music and the din of laughter and merrymaking in the wind, wafting through the air in a joyous dance that only urged her forward.

Hermione sped up, and as she drew closer, she could make out each cheerful beat of the _bodhrán_ , the convivial pluck of the lute's strings and every jovial cadence of the whistles. Clearing the sloping incline that led her to the top, her gaze immediately fell on the enormous bonfire, yet unlit until the last rays of the sun faded into the night, stationed at the exact centre of the hilltop, its size dwarfing the people scattered around it. To one side of the assembly, the bards made magic with their music, bringing life to the festivities. Around them were the druids of Elaindale, Arthenvale and Aderynnyth, some already having their fill of cider, mead and wine, others laughing and chatting endlessly as they prepared the fare for the evening. All of them wore colourful clothing, in as much for the occasion as for the people's preference for lively colours.

Hermione grinned, elated at the festive sight. 

_Mea’n Fo’mhair_ , the second great harvest of the year, was about to begin.

Then Nona crested the hill, heaving and panting like all the air from her lungs had fled from her entirely. “ _Eirianwen, you..._ ” she wheezed, a hand against her midriff as she tried to catch her breath, wisps of long salt and pepper hair escaping their plait. “ _You little rascal!_ ”

“ _Sorry, Nona._ ” Hermione smothered a giggle at the sorry sight her nurse made and tried to look contrite. No one but Nona had ever called Hermione a rascal, not even in her previous life, but she supposed it was only because Nona had an overprotective and overbearing streak that rivalled that of Molly Weasley's, and even then, Molly always had at least three of her children around to focus it all on. Nona only had Hermione to fuss over for the time being, her own sons already grown druid men and out of the nest.

“ _Now_ ,” the stout matron finally said with a hearty heave. “ _Come along, Eirianwen. We mustn't keep the Great Goddess waiting._ ”

Nona took Hermione by the hand, an action that had always made the girl feel more than a little awkward, and led her through the throng of people milling about. As they made their way through the assembly of excited druids to find a good spot for the autumn equinox ritual, those they passed took notice and bowed respectfully, words of friendly greetings and salutations flying from every which way. Hermione smiled in response to the calls, nodding in acknowledgement like she had been taught to do, albeit a little more awkwardly than Mother would have liked, still unused to the attention the druids showered her even after all this time. To them, she was not just a little druid girl — no, she was _Eirianwen_ , a name bestowed to her by Druatia, a name to be uttered in respect. 

It wasn't a title per se, though it was understood as such, for she was a sapling of the Great Mother. That made her just a little bit more of a deity, though not quite yet. Perhaps a demi-goddess would be the closest thing to describe her. At least until it was her turn to ascend into the cycle.

Hermione grimaced at the thought. Though it had been over a year since her consciousness surfaced, it was still a difficult concept to fathom. In fact, much of how the druids lived and practised were difficult to fathom, so different were their ways from muggles and even from wizards that she often felt like she was living in a different world entirely.

Finally, Hermione and Nona found a spot to one side of the bonfire where an outcrop of large boulders sat clustered together, close enough to the ritual circle around the bonfire, yet far enough as to not interfere with those involved in the ritual. A pair of familiar blond heads were already seated there awaiting the night’s proceedings. Hermione smiled, pleased to see familiar faces, before she let her eyes wander over the gathering around her — from the unlit fire pit to the musicians and the cornucopia of food laid out in three long tables and the copious amounts of spirits stocked off in barrels. Her gaze swept over the people in colourful tunics, dresses and robes, towards the vast woodlands below to the horizon, where the setting sun made its final descent of the day. 

In a way, she thought, perhaps she was in a different world. The druids belonged to a world all their own, after all, disconnected from the rest of humanity, magical or otherwise, almost entirely forgotten.

As they drew closer to their destination, one of the boulders’ occupants noticed their approach and a happy smile lit up her youthful, elfin features. Hermione gave her a wave, one that Lucine returned eagerly before she turned to the woman beside her, tugging at the thick woollen sleeve of her midnight blue robes, no doubt letting her know of their arrival. 

Lucine’s mother turned towards them at her daughter’s news with friendly pale-grey eyes, gleaming even in the fading sunlight, with an all-knowing look that always made Hermione feel like she could look right into her very soul. And since Essylt Smethwyck was an actual druid seer, with the natural gift of retrocognition, Hermione had supposed that she very well could. 

For all of her scorn towards the art of Divination, she had been quick to learn that while the class Trelawny had taught were completely useless to students who didn’t possess the gift of Sight, Divination, when practised by actual seers, was a study that could actually hold its own against all the other fields of academia. With her Sight, Essylt had been quick to see that Hermione, since that fateful day, had not been the same _Eirianwen_ she had raised her daughter with.

_The burden of a life past_ , she had told Hermione upon seeing her, _was both a blessing and a curse_.

“Ah, _Metron_ * Nona,” Essylt greeted with a serene tilt of her lips as she stood from where she was perched, the young girl beside her following suit. She turned to smile at Hermione and bowed in the way of the druids, with her head dipped low, one foot placed behind the other, her right hand resting open over her heart. “ _Eirianwen_. _A good twilight to you both._ ”

“ _A good twilight, Doeth* Essylt_ ,” Hermione greeted, giving the willowy blonde woman and her friend, who had also dipped into a respectful bow like her mother, an amiable and courteous smile of her own. “ _Hullo, Lucine. A bountiful Mea’n Fo’mhair to you both_.”

Beside her, Nona nodded approvingly before giving her own greetings to their friends. “ _And it is, indeed, another bountiful Mea’n Fo’mhair. Today’s harvest was yet another great success, praise the goddess._ ”

“ _Aye, by the grace of the Earth Mother, Elaindale and its neighbours have continued to prosper,_ ” Essylt agreed with a graceful nod of her head, her long golden blonde hair a cascading gold down her back, and despite the slight wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, she looked every bit as fae-like as her daughter. She glanced at the horizon, her all-knowing eyes taking in the final rays of the sun. “ _Come sit with us; the ritual will begin soon._ ”

Hermione shared an excited giggle with Lucine and sat beside each other on the smaller rocks, but before anything else could be said between them, the world around them was faded into darkness, the last rays of the sun finally gone. The music stopped, falling into silence, echoes of the last notes of every instrument and song ringing in the sudden stillness. The chatter and laughter died away to nothingness. No one moved, nothing stirred, not even the wind. The world around them, for but a moment or two, was in absolute silence, as the world had been before life had been born.

Hermione held her breath, afraid to disturb the hush of reverence that enveloped them. 

Then the moon peeked out from behind the clouds, and there, bathed in its silver beams at the very centre of the gathered assembly, stood Druantia, tall, ethereal and luminescent in her moss green dress, golden girdle and pearl-coloured robes. On her head, a crown of crisp brown, gold and orange leaves and acorns sat, the fallen symbols of autumn surrounding a head of dark sable tresses. She took the time to gaze into each and every druid's eyes, each one holding their breath in anticipation and in honour — of the mother, of the earth, of magic — before she brought her palms together and produced a burning orb of fire, bright and warm, its glow chasing away the shadows around her.

When she spoke, her words were musical in the Celtic ancient tongue. It was a chant, a song, an extrapolation that never failed to call on to the raw magic of nature. 

*“ _Equal hours of light and darkness_

 _we celebrate the balance of Mabon._ ”

As the goddess’s words rushed over them, the ground beneath their feet seemed to move, undulate. She spoke in the wind, acknowledged its breath of life, and electricity crackled in the air, dancing over their skin and sparking at the ends of their hair.

“ _For all that is bad, there is good._

_For that which is despair, there is hope._

_For the moments of pain, there are moments of love._

_For all that falls, there is the chance to rise again._ ”

Everyone watched with bated breath as the flame in her hands grew and spun in on itself, crackling with condensed magic. It morphed as it twirled faster and faster, rising above the crowd until it lit up the entire night sky, three spirals flaring out in a never-ending blaze.

_The Triskelion_ *. The triple spiral, the symbol of motion, cycles and progress, a homage to _Mea’n Fo’mhair_ , when nature moved onto its next phase and prepared for its death.

The symbol burned bright, as blinding as the sun as the last words of the prayer were uttered by the rest of the enclave, Celtic words tumbling from devoted lips as the magic around them thickened.

“ _May we find balance in our lives_

 _as we find it in our hearts._ ”

_This_ , Hermione thought as she felt the magic build in the air, the breeze blowing a rising crescendo as the ritual rumbled to its climax, the triskele imploding as it shot down and straight into the bonfire, golden flames hungrily licking at the wood. A gigantic fire roared to life and the dense concentration of magic around them expanded, reaching into the very depths of their soul, filling each one to the brim.

_This was what made wizards and druids ultimately different._

Perception. Their perception of magic was highly different. Wizards and witches have grown so used to their magic that they saw uses of it in their everyday lives. They immersed themselves in it and lived with a natural acceptance of magic. They saw its beauty and they used it as they saw fit, with respect or utility, for love or for hate.

The druids, on the other hand, lived with magic, coexisted with it as one would with a sentient, benevolent being. They lived their lives around its gifts and its cyclical nature, moulded their own magic to fit its flow. There was a reverence, a devotion in the way that they used magic, a harmony that was distinctly different from those that lived in the wizarding world.

Before anyone could move, a crystal goblet encrusted with druid stones and etched with runes appeared in front of the Earth Mother, filled with purified water and wine. A silver athame, its sharp edges glinting in the orange glow of the flames, appeared in her hand. 

“ _To the earth, I offer my life’s blood,_

 _To magic, I offer my soul._ ”

Druantia brought the sacred knife to her palm, cutting into her flesh, before pouring thick rivulets of blood into the floating goblet. Then she turned and plunged the athame’s blade into the flames to purify its edges once again, just as Elgar Pearce, Elaindale’s chieftain, stepped forward, falling onto one knee in front of the goddess. With a regal tilt of her head, she presented the athame to the tribe leader, who accepted gratefully, and cut into his own palm without hesitation and allowed his life’s blood to drip into the crystal chalice, the same prayer uttered from his lips.

“ _To the earth, I offer my life’s blood,_

 _To magic, I offer my soul._ ”

And soon, one by one, every druid of age, including Nona and Essylt, had stepped forward and offered their blood. With each and every offering, the magic in the air thickened, wrapping them like a thick blanket. An invisible pressure in the air built until all they could breathe was magic. 

When the offering was finished, the Mother Goddess took hold of the crystal goblet, whispered an incantation of acceptance that made the gems and runes in the cup glow brightly, before she poured the libation into the earth in a wide arc before her. The magic that had coalesced around them shattered, exploding into a thousand bursts of magic that danced with their own. It was a breathtaking moment, nearly euphoric to those who participated in the offering, to be one with the earth and with the ambient magic around them. 

Then there was a deafening cheer, and the music started up again. Men clapped each other on the back, women hugged, and kisses among loved ones were exchanged. Goblets of ale and mead were passed among the revellers, the food was also served to anyone who came near the table that was full to bursting. The Harvest's flame would last for four days, each day a reminder to the people that they can rest easy for winter, for the harvest had been bountiful.

People bowed to the goddess as they passed her, presenting gifts and serving her drinks. She smiled and laughed with them benevolently. Then, as if sensing her stare, she looked up and caught Hermione's eye with a molten gaze and winked, a cheeky smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

The little girl smiled back. She wouldn't be seeing Mother tonight; she would need to travel her druid guards to other enclaves soon, presiding over their own harvest feasts in the coming days. She wasn't old enough yet to join her just yet, but that was all right. Though _Mea’n Fo’mhair_ wasn't as big a feast as _Beltane_ or _Lughnasadh_ , it was still her favourite festival of the year. 

* * *

Elaindale, February 1966

As it turned out, embroidering was nothing like knitting socks and scarves for house elves and Hermione absolutely loathed it. She glared daggers at her ruined wool fabric and was of half a mind to set it on fire. She could understand why Nona insisted she learn how to weave and embroider. It was, after all, one of Elaindale's most treasured arts and future-goddess she maybe, she was still expected to grow up as any druid child of Elaindale would, and that involved learning needlework, particularly of runes and knots.

When she was older, Nona had promised, she would use thread from spun from the fleece of magical winged rams, with their shimmering golden fleece, whose magical properties could amplify and hold together all spells the fabric was intended for, including shielding, invisibility and protection. Hermione suspected that Harry's Invisibility Cloak had been made by the druids, albeit of a different thread and quality, and not often made for trade with the other enclaves. Still though, Hermione often preferred her lessons with old Master Berwyn who loved to dote on her because she was adept with numbers and gave her tomes and tomes of ancient history, alchemy and world magic to read. For all that the druids liked to live with nature — quite literally living inside and around the trees — and refused to live in large modern buildings like their wizarding cousins, the druids had kept a lot of lost knowledge with them. In fact, Hermione would gladly spend much of her now considerably longer life ensconced within the _Coeden Wybodaeth_ , where the druid scholars put all their scrolls and books, just getting lost in words and ancient knowledge. 

Thankfully, her attempts at a not-so-accidental pyromancy via a burning look of distaste was interrupted by a low whisper, loud enough that only she could hear.

“ _Psst, Eirianwen. Over here!_ ”

Hermione turned towards the voice, familiar and distinct in its childish cadence, and she smiled bemusedly at the sight of Taran hiding behind the brush that sat at the edge of the clearing, unruly copper lock sticking out every which way. He waved a beckoning hand at her, the other one placed over his lips in the universal sign for silence.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder at her needlework mentor, _Metron_ Callwen, who also happened to be Taran's mother and the best weaver in the village, only to find the woman preoccupied with the other kids, fussing over their splotchy (though she admitted hers were no better) work. Deciding that she was curious enough to risk a displeased reprimand from the soft-spoken woman, Hermione stood and tiptoed her way into the shadows of the woods. 

Taran grinned at her approach and eagerly made way for her as she crawled into the brush after her friend. Just like Lucine, Taran was one of her constant companions at Elaindale, largely because of the fact that the three of them were the closest in age. He was a cheerful boy, mischievous and bright — qualities that made him the village favourite. 

“ _Hullo, Taran,_ ” she said as she crawled back up to her feet, patting at her now stained wool frock. She looked up at the boy with undisguised curiosity. Taran was supposed to be at the fields around this time, helping the others plough the grain, though she didn’t put it past the boy to skive off once in a while. “ _What is it? What’s going on?_ ”

Instead of roping her with whatever crazy mischief he had cooked up, like sneaking out a few pastries from the baker’s hut, he looked down, as if suddenly overcome by a bashfulness that Hermione had never once seen in him. She tilted her head to the side, bemused now more than ever. 

“ _Is everything okay?_ ”

The boy lightly kicked at the dirt before him, sapphire eyes still downcast. “ _I’m turning seven in three days_ ,” he started, his voice almost shy. “ _So my Da is going to send me away soon._ ”

Hermione knew this, of course, which was why he should be helping out in the fields in preparation for his birthday. She was also aware of the druid fostering system when children at the age of seven would begin to train with masters of various fields and arts. Taran, like his father before him, would probably foster at Arthenvale, where the best of the druid warriors were often fostered. She, herself, would begin her formal training with Druantia soon when she turned seven in September. But Hermione had refrained from saying all this and instead continued to gaze at the boy curiously, sensing his need to have his piece said.

“ _Master Gruffydd is going to start fostering me at Arthenvale in spring._ ” Then he looked up at her and met her questioning look with a glint of steel in his eyes that was so out of place in a child his age. “ _I know I can’t officially swear my fealty to you until I’m of age but—_ ” The boy abruptly placed his right fist over his heart with a loud thump and knelt down on his right knee in front of her, head bowed. “ _I swear upon my magic and upon my soul that I will serve as your shield and sword, Hermione Granger, Daughter of Magic, Child of the Wisps, Eirianwen of Elaindale. By my oath, I will protect you with my life._ ”

Hermione was so surprised, her mouth left agape by his declaration, that she hadn’t even noticed the magic that had converged in the air around them until the familiar burst of magic popped and slid over their skin and hair. 

The oath was made and magic was their witness.

* * *

_Coetir, April 1969_

While she had been at Hogwarts, Hermione never had a particular interest in the Care of Magical Creatures. She would admit, with no small hint of embarrassment, that she had only taken the elective because she was a proud little swot with something to prove, and less about her actually wanting to be around them. What had really stoked her passion to fight for magical creatures hadn’t been for its care, not in the way Hagrid or Charlie cared for them, anyway. What had really ignited her flames for activism was the injustice and unfair treatment that many sentient beings like Dobby and Remus had suffered.

And though she doubted she had changed overmuch since she was thirteen, swot and all, Hermione was wiser now. More so now in her second life — or at least that’s what she’d liked to believe. But ever since she’d begun living with the druids… Hermione had been quick to learn that there was more to just fighting for their rights in a society that was being stubbornly prejudiced against them, more to just giving them temporary sanctuaries, though they were certainly noble deeds worth fighting for. The druids believed that for every creature, plant or tree, there was a place in the circle of life and magic. They all served a purpose and it was their duty to ensure that everyone found their place. And now, here, sitting on the grass and stroking a comforting hand over the distressed and heavily pregnant unicorn beside her, she finally understood with startling clarity what that really meant.

Hermione murmured encouragingly at the mare, sending her impressions of reassurance and affection in the way that she’d learned to do in order to ‘speak’ with animals. She cast a worried glance back at the Earth Mother, who was elbow deep in think, silver blood as she tried to pull the unicorn foal out of the mare's womb, silently wishing there was more she could do and desperately trying not to panic, least that emotion bleed out to the birthing beast, causing more harm than good. 

What had started out as a special day to witness a momentous occasion with Druantia — the foaling of a baby unicorn, which only occurred once every five hundred years or so — had quickly devolved into an emergency equine accouchement when they realised something wasn’t right. 

_The foal is too big_ , Mother had stated grimly before she started down the rocky path down the cliff they had been lounging on so they wouldn’t disturb the unicorn during her time of labour and birthing. Hermione had been quick to follow, her mind racing through everything she had learned about unicorns or equestrians, but none of what she had learned about all the known magical creatures in the Wizarding World while working for the Department of Regulation of Magical Creatures had ever prepared her for this! 

Unicorns, Hermione knew, were considered sacred creatures by magicalfolk, more so because they were widely considered creatures of Light, innately good and pure. They possessed a kind magical purity in their souls that was rare in most creatures, and even less so in humans. This was why it was considered blasphemous to kill a unicorn, and beyond sacrilegious to even think about consuming any of its defiled remains. Magical ministries all over the world agreed that they were to be protected, both for its rarity and for its purity.

To the druids, however, though they also believed in the preservation of the unicorns with as much fervency as their wizarding counterparts, they served a higher purpose than being just beautiful beasts of Light magic. To them, according to Druantia, unicorns were the heralds of the enchanted woods, the reason why enchanted forests appear. Whichever land a young unicorn decided to call its home, it would, in no less than a century, surely begin to grow into an enchanted forest. Unicorns had the highest concentration of Light magic inside them, and where light went, darkness followed; and the age-old dance between two opposing natural forces of magic would begin.

Where magic thrived, life would follow.

And now that life and the potential it held was in danger.

“ _There, there, beauty, we’ve almost got her_ ,” Hermione heard Druantia murmur with a determined look in her molten eyes. She gave Hermione a nod, who took it as her cue to pour all the empathy and encouragement she could to the mare as she stroked its brow and mane, and with a great heave and a loud squelch, the foal was pulled free from its mother’s womb. 

Hermione let out a delighted laugh, the mare in her arms breathing heavily against her neck exhaustion before it nudged its snout gently against her caressing palm.

_Thank you_ , she seemed to say. 

Later, as they made their way through the enchanted woods of Coetir astride their perytons* in thoughtful silence, in no hurry to return to Elaindale where their guards were surely waiting for them in consternation, the Mother Goddess finally spoke in a voice that always reminded Hermione of moonbeams and still, calm waters. “ _Did you know, Eilonwy, that I met your mother?”_

“ _My-my mother?_ ” Hermione was so disarmed by the unexpected topic, she nearly fell off her peryton, who squawked at her indignantly, displeased by her careless riding. She patted a commiserating hand on its neck despite her distraction. “ _You mean—_ ”

“ _Helen Granger, your birth mother, yes._ ”

Hermione looked up uncertainly at the Mother Goddess with furrowed brows, taking in her regal bearing: her shoulders back, her posture ramrod straight, ever graceful even as she sat astride a trotting peryton, and her chin lifted high, despite the silver stains of blood that had stubbornly remained on her yellow dress and midnight cloak, no matter how hard they’d tried to vanish them. They rarely talked about Hermione’s previous life, if ever, and Hermione had admittedly been steering clear of the topic. As far as she was concerned, she had learned all she needed that fateful day her memories returned. Any other curiosities had been pushed to the back of her mind, some memories proving to be more painful than others…

Like her parents.

“ _I…_ ” she finally began, when she realised she’d been silent for longer than she’d intended. “ _Did you say you met my mum? But how? Why?_ ”

“ _When I told you you had been born for magic, I had not been exaggerating or waxing poetics._ ” The goddess gave her an amused sideways glance, molten eyes glinting, though there was a shadowed cast to them. “ _Helen Granger had great trouble conceiving. She was barren, you see, but she had been desperate for a babe of her own. In her desperation, she tried what muggle medicine had failed to offer, and turned to old magic instead_.”

Her mum? _Magic?_ By this point, Hermione was too stumped to voice out any more questions and Druantia was more than happy to continue with her story, letting all the answers fall into place.

“ _She stumbled upon one of the rare muggles that still practised the Old Religion and she was given a ritual to perform under the full moon, on a clear, cloudless night._ ” Druantia’s eyes remained fixed forward, her voice still calm, but there was a rueful twist of her lips as she continued, the gentle breeze setting wisps of sable hair free from its ornate coiffure. “ _It was a rather extraordinary twist of fate that the ritual itself was genuine, as much of the texts about the old magic have been lost to the mundane world. It was a weak attempt, to be sure, but it was enough for me to hear her call._ ”

“ _But how could my mother have done a ritual? She’s a muggle!_ ” Hermione couldn’t help but blurt out, even though she knew the answer to her own question immediately, and the Mother knew it too from the look she sent her way, eyebrows rising and her lips pursing in knowing and expectant manner. The girl’s cheeks burned with embarrassment, feeling contrite and a little chagrined that she was acting like...like Ron, of all people!

She had learned early on from Master Berwyn that though muggles couldn’t wield magic the way the magicalfolk could, they were not without magic in their essence or their cores. They still possessed enough magic inside them that could manifest in a variety of ways, from the physical attributes, such as extraordinary strength and stamina, to latent talents such as singing and an aptitude for healing. So, given all this, of course, her mother would have enough magic in her to perform a ritual. Any muggle could, if they put all their souls, their cores, into it.

“ _I came to her then,_ ” the goddess continued, letting the faux pas slide, “ _disguised as a crone because I was curious._ ” At this pronouncement, a mischievous glitter entered her eyes, and she gave Hermione an elvish grin that usually set Madoc, the captain of the Mother's guard, on edge. “ _I didn’t have to, but the neopagans do have such an interesting belief about me as a triple being. You could say I was indulging two of my curiosities that night._ ”

Hermione couldn’t help but roll her eyes at this, though there was no real heat in her derision. Living over half a millennium must have exhausted everything entertaining to the goddess. 

“ _But when my magic brushed her, into her soul, I knew that magic had found its next vessel._ ” The Earth Mother merely gave her a haughty look at her reaction, but it was gone in a second, replaced by a fond, doting smile that she usually gave Hermione when she did something the pleased her. “ _You were conceived that winter night — or at least the egg that would allow for your conception was created. For all my magic, even I can’t create a child without a man. She and your father—_ ”

“ _STOP!_ ” Hermione all but shrieked, hands flying to her ears, her eyes squeezed shut in horror. She did not want to talk about her parents having sex. Ever.

The tinkling laugh that escaped Druantia was a musical cascade of silver notes and birdsong, her head thrown back and the crinkle in her eyes were filled with mirth. She shook her head, the ornaments in her crown of May flowers and blooms, swaying with her movement. “ _Druid girl you now may be, little elain, but it seems you’ve still yet to shed your...conservative views._ ”

Hermione’s cheeks were burning, and the glare she said her Mother was more so. “ _I’m only_ _nine!_ ” 

In this timeline, at least.

“ _I married my first husband when I was_ fourteen*,” Druantia sniffed delicately as if that proved her point.

It really didn’t.

Hermione sighed, exasperated, unable to believe that the all-powerful being the druids worshipped lived to embarrass her. Mothers, they were all the same. She sobered at the thought. And then, she peeked at the smirking woman riding along beside her through her lashes, suddenly shy. “ _Thank you,_ ” she said.

When Druantia turned to her questioningly, she hastily added. “ _For telling me about my mother. My parents,_ ” she swallowed thickly, emotion swelling into her throat, “ _they never got their memories of me back, so I’m...I’m glad I have you, now._ ”

The hand that cupped her face surprised Hermione, and her eyes flew up to the woman who had lifted her face up so she could look into her beautiful, ethereal face. “ _You will always have me, Hermione._ ”

Hermione’s eyes misted. “ _And you have me._ ”

The smile that the Earth Mother gave her was as blinding as the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to Google:  
> * Metron - means matron in Welsh  
> * Doeth - means wise in Welsh  
> *Triskelion - a complex ancient Celtic symbol; also known as Triple Spiral  
> * perytons - a mythological hybrid animal with the physical features of a stag and a bird  
> * The prayer during Mea’n Fo’mhair was a result of a search through Google  
> * Druantia married at fourteen - Apparently, the Celts’ age of consent for marriage was fourteen, and since the Mother Goddess is over five centuries old, she was a child bride. This will be the only time this will be mentioned, however, and no one under eighteen will be married in this story.


	4. A Hidden World - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your wonderful reviews! They keep me going despite my busy schedule!
> 
> This chapter is still the second part of chapter three. Chapter four is coming out next! This chapter is unbeta-ed so there will be grammatical errors and spelling mistakes.

_ Hogwarts, September 1975 _

“So you’re telling me,” Frank Longbottom said, the hint of incredulity in his voice rising with each word that came out of his mouth, “that  _ that _ wiggentree,” he pointed at the aforementioned tree standing innocently a few feet from where they were kneeling and tending to the bed of molies with a look of utter disbelief, “told  _ you  _ that Filch is having a love affair with a  _ ghost _ ?!”

“By the name of Lachina Horne, yes,” Hermione laughingly nodded as she glanced up at her work. “I looked her up — she was the daughter of Janet Horne*, a witch who was executed for witchcraft in Scotland. Lachina had managed to escape, but apparently, her guilt over her mother’s death was too much to bear and she drowned herself in a lake.”

The seventh year boy could only shake his dirty blond head, brows pinched in perplexity. “I don’t know what’s more amazing — the fact that Filch has romantic liaisons, with  _ ghosts _ no less, or that you got this information from a  _ tree _ !”

“Trees are horrible gossips,” Hermione agreed with a laugh.

The wiggentree’s branches rustled its branches before them, its leaves shaking unnaturally, and Hermione got the impression of it huffing and harrumphing, unamused by her words. She was sure that if it could turn its back on them, it would have. 

“Well, it's true!” Hermione stuck her tongue at it, sending off teasing impressions.

Frank turned to watch its odd behaviour and shook his head again. “I’ll never get used to that.”

The young witch beside him chuckled at his bemusement before they lapsed in companionable silence as they continued with their work, packing the freshly turned soil tightly around the newly planted molies that, unbeknownst to Frank, preened in delight between their hands. Their first assignment for Advanced Herbology, which they took together, was easy enough. All they needed to do was to grow moly flowers to their best and most potent condition so that it could neutralise even the most violent snargaluff. As projects went, the first stage of it wasn't the most difficult — it was just that growing molies required extra attention and constant care in order for them to grow to their most optimum condition. 

_...Wrangling with snargaluffs, however, will prove to be difficult,  _ Hermione thought, though she did enjoy the challenge. When the molies were grown enough to be used in a paste sedative, they were to use it on the snargaluffs so they could extract its pods from the trunks without trouble.

Having the unfair advantage of being able to communicate with different flora and fauna  _ and  _ having already gone through Herbology in her early years once before had quickly accelerated Hermione through the program, and Professor Sprout had kindly (and proudly) let her sit her OWLs for the class in her third year. But sentient plants were just as unpredictable as wild animals, and Hermione would rather she muscle down with cranky verdure than be bored out of her wits in class. 

Thankfully, her teachers in Ancient Runes and Arithmancy had thought that same. They'd taken a leaf out of Professor Sprout's book and let her sit her OWLs for those classes last year, too. She would have asked to sit for her Potions, as well, but Slughorn wasn't the most subtle teacher. If Hermione showed more aptitude in class than was necessary, the old codger would no doubt draw too much attention to her than she would have liked.

Attention at Hogwarts in the 1970's was the  _ last _ thing she wanted.

In fact, before Hermione had first left for Hogwarts, she had asked the Mother Goddess to do one thing for her: to cast a Notice-Me-Not enchantment on her, one that lasted until it was actively dispelled. The spell had allowed her to spend her Hogwarts years relatively unnoticed by people who weren’t specifically looking for her, students and even teachers alike, so long as she didn’t draw too much attention to herself. Hermione had then proceeded to actively spend most of those same years blending in. It had been difficult for her, at first, to refrain from answering every question she knew the answer to (and she knew them all, bragging aside), to refrain from showing the world just how bright she was (because she really was). 

It had been difficult, but she knew  _ exactly _ which period in Hogwarts’ extensive history she was entering into, and staying quietly under the radar was tantamount. 

Druantia had given her a questioning look at her unusual request but had acquiesced nonetheless. Whatever the Mother Goddess’s plans were by insisting she return to Hogwarts, Hermione wanted to disrupt as little of her schoolmates’ personal lives as possible; whatever the deity had cooked up for the Wizarding World was bound to be groundbreaking on its own, anyway. The Mother was, after all, not known for doing things by half-measures. Where did people think nature’s merciless fury and ruthlessness come from?

Unfortunately, her plans to stay as unnoticed as a wraith had been foiled the moment she was paired with Frank Longbottom in their first year of Advanced Herbology together. Being the only fourth year in a class of sixth and seventh years had certainly piqued his interest. But it wasn't until they had to fend off a venomous tentacula together that Frank found out about her unique communication skills with vegetation, and she'd been blown from oddly smart fourth year to interesting Herbology prodigy with enviable talents. And to a boy who would rather spend his free time in a garden, it was definitely high up on his Thing to Notice List.

Hermione hadn’t meant to strike a friendship with him, but nothing forged a stronger bond between two individuals like surviving a man-eating plant together. And so, Frank became the only exception, outside of Taran and Lucine and a handful of teachers, who could consistently see through the enchantment woven over her. Besides, Frank reminded her so much of Neville that being in his presence always felt like a balm to her injured soul. 

“Do you think —” Frank started as he dug another hole in the flowerbed when a commotion echoed through the greenhouse. 

The duo looked over to the entrance just in time to see a group of boys tumbling inside the greenhouse in a mess of laughter, flying robes and gangly limbs. 

Hermione’s blood froze in her veins at the sight of them.

“Oi, Longbottom!” one of them called out as he stepped out of the shadows that shrouded the main entrance and into the sunbeams filtering through the transparent roofing. Sirius Black sauntered in with a cocky smirk, James Potter close behind him an equally self-assured grin pasted on his face. There were mischievous twinkles in their eyes that shone in through the streaming sunlight, their grins just as impish.

“Frank, my good man! Just the bloke we wanted to see!” James proclaimed grandly as he stepped forward with a grand sweep of his arms, complete with a flourishing bow. 

Frank sent Hermione an amused glance before he turned to humour his fellow Gryffindors, a cynical eyebrow raised. “Potter. Black. What brings your...boisterous presence here this fine afternoon?”

James grinned, all charm and blinding white teeth before he launched into his spiel. “Longbottom, how would  _ you  _ like to be a part of a monumental prank on the Slytherins? The best we’ve ever done so far! In fact, it might go down as the best one in history!”

Frank shared another uncertain glance with Hermione, his tone sceptical. “A prank, huh? Pranks aren't really my thing, mate.”

“But it’s going to be brilliant!” Sirius interjected, his excitement so palpable he fairly bounced on his feet. “And we can’t do it without you!”

James passed a cursory glance at Hermione, an unconscious action that imitated Frank’s side glances, but he didn’t seem to really register her presence. Sirius gave no indication that he noticed her kneeling by a patch of moly plants beside their fellow Gryffindor at all.

Hermione took a deep breath through her nose, and exhaled it with a soft breath, steadying her heartbeat. Of course, they wouldn’t notice her, not with the enchantment she wore. She had made a conscious effort to never cross paths with the Marauders since her school years at Hogwarts began, and her enchantment had made it easier to pass through their notice without incident. 

It wasn't that she didn't have faith in Druantia's enchantment, but it wasn't infallible either. While she'd learned to downplay her presence, she wanted to take the extra precaution with the Marauders.  Her interactions with Frank had been a calculated risk, and she had comforted herself in the knowledge that he was already engaged to Alice Stretton and that her interactions with him were limited only to the Greenhouses. But the Marauders were wild cards. They were far too important in the grand scheme of things that she wanted to leave the original timeline as unscathed as she could. There were too many variables to consider if she didn't, especially when taking into account the Earth Mother's own plans for the Wizarding World.

Murmuring a quick goodbye to her friend, Hermione slipped around the boys before Frank could stop her, easily distracted by the two who were all but accosting him for his attention. She edged her way to the work tables, slipped off her dragonhide gloves, boots and bronze and blue gardening vest, picked up her bookbag and made a beeline for the exit. She passed by a lingering Pettigrew some distance behind the wildly gesticulating duo (something about bubotuber pus and flying projectiles). Like his friends, he gave no indication that he was aware of her hasty retreat, and her mouth turned down in distaste. Good.

The last member of their gang of misfits was lounging by the entranceway, and Hermione barely spared the lanky boy a glance as well, confident that she’d passed him, unseen like she always did.

Unbeknownst to her, however, where Moony was concerned — she was wrong.

* * *

Hermione found Taran and Lucine waiting for her at the entrance to the castle, as they usually did on the days she worked at the greenhouses and she smiled at the sight of them. Taran looked dishevelled, tie left askew around his neck, robes rumpled from his haste — no doubt from having raced over to their usual rendezvous point after his Duelling Club was done. Lucine, in contrast, looked more put together than the boy beside her, even though Hermione knew she'd also just come from whatever adventure she cooked up for herself that afternoon.

“Did anything exciting today?” Hermione asked them by way of greeting as she neared them.

Lucine's smile was as self-satisfied as the cat's that caught the canary. “Doxy-hunting, and it was highly successful, thank you.”

Hermione blinked. “I... didn't even know there were doxies running around at Hogwarts,” she commented after a beat, trying not to sound incredulous. She glanced at Taran who only shrugged, unperturbed, used to Lucine's peculiarities by now.

“There's an entire nest near Hagrid's pumpkin patch,” supplied Lucine with an easy shrug of her own. “I managed to get several vials of doxy venom to add to Ilyn's streeler treats. He loves the added flavour.”

_ Ah. _

Ilyn, of course, was a carnivorous Afanc who lived in the lake in Elaindale. It was...a very strange friendship, indeed.

“Well, I hope they didn't feel  _ too _ harassed,” Hermione finally said with a dry smile. She never did know what to make of her friend's unusual proclivities, much as she was fond of the girl. Indeed, in this lifetime, Lucine was her best friend.

“Harassed?” Taran interjected with a smirk. “Try terrorised.”

“Or traumatised,” Hermione added in as an afterthought with a mirrored smirk, though she did wonder about the truth in her words.  _ Those poor doxies... _

The blonde scoffed, offended, the ribbing sliding off her as easily as a duck slipped through water. “Doxies need their venoms extracted, otherwise they start antagonising the bowtruckles.”

And she was probably right, too. 

“I don't think that's the point, Luce,” the lone male in their trio commented wryly with a roll of his eyes, a look of fond exasperation briefly flashing through his face. Then he turned to Hermione, raising questioning brows at her. “Where's Frank?”

Hermione sighed and shrugged her bookbag higher up onto her shoulder. She brushed a stray curl out of the way, having just taken her hair off the haphazard bun she had wrestled them in.  “ He had visitors, so I left early. ”

“ In the greenhouses? On a Friday afternoon? ” Taran questioned, ever the sceptic.

“Well, they weren't there to help out with our project, that's for sure,” she answered  as she moved forward, silently getting their group moving inside the castle halls. “And the Duelling Club?”

Taran shrugged. “S'alright. Professor Flitwick is a nasty duelist, though.” There was a hint of a whinge in his voice as he fell into step beside her, the frustration he felt whenever he thought of his long-standing defeat at the hands of their half-Goblin mentor bleeding out. “Duelling has too many rules that're useless in a real fight.”

Hermione chuckled at the rare display of his bruised ego. Flitwick was a master duelist and was, in fact, once (or thrice) a Duelling World Champion. Taran, much as he excelled in physical and magical combat and strategy, would need a couple more years under his belt to beat that. She had no doubt, however, that Taran was the best fighter their age at Hogwarts at the moment. “You're just sore because you've never won against him.”

“Mmhmmm,” Lucine hummingly affirmed far too innocently at Hermione’s right, innocent eyes wide and glittering. “Not once.”

“And if I remember correctly, you've never won against Madoc, either,” Hermione added, a finger tapping absently on her chin as she thought.

“Nope,  _ never _ .” The blonde beside her shook her head, sending her flaxen locks swaying with the movements.

Lucine shared an impish grin with Hermione, before both girls dissolved into a fit of giggles at the look that Taran gave them both; a glare that could have sent a herd of minotaurs running. The druid boy rolled his eyes in aggravation as he walked alongside them, though there was a faint lift of a grudging smile at the corner of his lips. Sometimes, he wondered if being stuck at Hogwarts with two mad wenches was worth it. He sighed; he should have just joined the scouting ranks.

They lapsed into companionable silence when the laughter subsided. They walked through the halls of the castle, already knowing where Hermione's feet were likely to lead her — the library. 

Hermione basked in the contentment that filled her, undeniably grateful to be among good friends. Though they hadn't had life-threatening adventures together like she did with Harry and Ron, they had grown up together, been thrust into the unknown (at least to the two other druid children) Wizarding World together, away from the safety of their enclave and learned wizard magic together. No, they weren't bonds forged by necessity and survival, but she treasured their friendship all the same. 

“It's the First Quarter Moon tonight.” Taran broke through her thoughts with a murmur, low and suddenly serious, dispelling the silence around them though his words were only for their ears. “Are you sure you'll be okay out there?”

Hermione glanced up at her earnest friend and protector and gave him a reassuring smile. “Taran, I've gone into the forest almost every week for years now; I think I'll be fine.”

The boy blew out a resigned breath and shook his head, longish copper locks flying, chagrined. “I shouldn't even be letting you go alone. Madoc is going to thrash my arse if he ever found out.”

“ _ Madoc  _ isn't here,” Hermione pointed out snidely, eyebrow lifting in a contrary fashion. “He isn't the boss of me, and neither are you.”

“He isn't the boss of the centaur herd either,” Lucine added helpfully with a serene smile. “And neither are you.”

“Our job is to protect her, Lucine. She's always out there on her own and we shouldn't be letting her out of our sight!”

“ _ She _ can also take care of herself, you know.” Hermione rolled her eyes, though there was no real heat in them. They've had this argument over and over again every time she had to go do the Ritual within the confines of centaur territory, one that she had to do alone. Taran's protests were nearly a ritual in and of itself. “In fact, out of all the places here, I might actually be the safest  _ in _ the Forbidden Forest.”

Lucine hummed in agreement, smile comforting in its tranquillity. “The forest will watch over you. And so will I.”

Taran sighed, managing to sound aggravated and resigned all at once in one spot, defeated this night. “Fine. But don't let her out of your Sight!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Janet Horne - the last woman to be tried and executed legally for witchcraft in Scotland and the British Isles. Lachina is an OC, but Janet did indeed have a daughter who escaped the trial and execution.


End file.
